


Steal My Records

by orphan_account



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Language, M/M, Masturbation, fanboy Morty, young Punk Rick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 11:31:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6152284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Morty sees The Flesh Curtains play is on his beat-up laptop, torrent file still open in the background.  (Or, the one where Morty’s an emotionally unstable fanboy.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steal My Records

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: underage, incest, language, masturbation, slight slut-shaming, AU-sort of.
> 
> This is set before the events of season one. Morty hasn’t met his grandpa yet. All he knows about him is that he likes to get drunk and fight people.

It begins like any other day. Morty is stretched out on the sofa in the living room, his laptop balanced precariously across his knees as he periodically refreshes his blog. The early evening sunset is starting to sink into night, and he's caught between an uncomfortable juxtaposition of bored and horny. There's nothing interesting online. He's stalked the Flesh Curtains fan page enough to know that there haven't been any updates in months. He's got nothing to do and nobody to do it with. Mom and dad are at a day spa attempting to get their shit together before one of mom's relatives stays with them for the summer. Summer is over at her friend's house, probably getting sloppy on wine cooler and oregano. The house is completely his. Too bad it's wasted on him.

  


His phone vibrates next to him and he looks over just in time to see the last vestiges of a text message from his sister. It's like she's psychic sometimes. He picks up his phone and reads the message with a frown.

  


  


His face feels hot but he's counting down the seconds until the file finishes downloading. The second it's done, he signs off with Summer; both of them choosing to ignore what just happened. Hopefully, it's actual footage and not Summer paying him back for some imagined slight. She can be bitchy that way.  


He carefully sets his laptop on the coffee table and vaults over the back of the couch, nearly face-planting on his way to double-check the locks. Stupid. He never learns. Pausing at the curtains, he peers out the window, squinting at the vague outlines of houses and cars lining the street. Who's to know if he leaves them open? The neighbors might catch an eyeful because who's he kidding? He's definitely going to jerk off to this video. But that would kind of be their problem for peaking. He swallows, hand still holding the curtain aside as he looks up and down the street once more. A few children run, screaming playfully, out of their house only a few houses up.

He closes the curtains. As an added precaution, he turns off all the lights and races back to the sofa, heart thundering in his chest. Maybe next time.

He eyes his cell phone, casually tossed aside in his earlier pique. He'd wanted to use his laptop for better resolution but it might be easier to navigate than transferring the file from his phone and waiting for it to download. Plus, he wouldn't have to do that awkward jerk-shift that comes with trying to balance a laptop while getting off. He picks up his phone and opens the messenger app, clicking on the video file. Force of habit has him popping in ear buds but he cranks the sound as a compromise. He hesitates only briefly before he's awkwardly maneuvering his fly open with one hand and shoving his boxers and jeans down to his knees. He kicks them carelessly to the side and sprawls across the sofa, his thighs splayed dramatically.

He feels a little ridiculous, with his dick hanging out and his entire body on display like some Warhol drawing. It's sort of appealing though; anyone could come strolling in at any second and he'd be caught with his dick out. The idea excites him, in a sick sort of way. Exhibition must run in the family because he and Summer have both caught each other more times than they'd care to admit, working out teenage frustrations in various rooms of the house. They never seem to learn either. It's become a game in its own way, each unwittingly upping the stakes every time they catch the other in a compromising position.

>He shoves that thought aside and turns his attention to his phone screen instead. He briefly wonders if he should even watch the video, especially after the _episode_ he had last time. There had been cops involved and he'd nearly scratched an eye out from…

But then the video starts and his thoughts turn to sludge. The screen fades in from a superimposed image of a black and grey skull. The title scrolls across the screen in familiar dripping red letters, reminiscent of shitty 90's WordArt. Sweat beads on his brow and upper lip as the video fades into grainy footage of a packed outdoor theater. The stage curtains are still drawn but the audience members are cheering so loudly that they nearly drown out the rhythm of the drums. A microphone squeals with too much feedback and a man's voice, good-humored and throaty, fills the stadium.

“ _ARE YOU BITCHES READY?_ _!_ ”

Morty knows that voice like the back of his hand; he's been jerking off to it for years. There's novelty in fresh words being purred directly into his ear, though, and he's hard as a rock in seconds, aching desperately. The audience screams, almost as if they're applauding his perversion. It fuels his sickness, making him spread his legs wider and gyrate his hips in needy little circles. He runs a shaky hand down his stomach, teasingly. He purposely avoids touching his cock, instead drawing his fingers lightly over the inner crease of his thigh. A feminine voice sounds on the video, catching his attention. He watches a woman, naked from the waist up and straddling a man's shoulders, throw her head back and howl. His mouth waters at the slim curve of her naked back, but he resists the overwhelming urge to take himself in hand. He's saving it for that perfect moment. For the _guitarist_.

On the video, people stomp and jump as the beat gets more frenetic, and a guitar joins in with a few carelessly played power chords. God, there he is. Morty's whole body is thrumming with the knowledge that just behind those curtains is the man he's been waiting for. The curtains start to rise.

  
As shitty as the video quality is, the band had been ahead of their time in the costuming department. The lead vocalist, aptly named Bird-Person, is dressed as a bird, complete with realistic, feathered wings that he fans out behind him during every solo. He's poised at the front of the stage, head down and wings out as electricity sparks and bursts behind him. Then there's a fucking animatronic cat, Squanchy, wigging out on drums. His fur is matted and his whiskers bent in sloppy detail, like he's just returned from a week-long bender; Morty swears he's an actual cat sometimes… if cats could go on benders. Lastly, there's the guitarist, Rick.

Electricity hums and whines throughout the stadium as the man steps forward, making his guitar _scream_ with his slim, skilled fingers. He's the one Morty's been waiting for. Morty's whole body jerks as he finally, _finally_ cups himself, his skin hot and uncomfortable. He devours the sight of Rick, greedily drinking him in as he wraps his fingers loosely around his cock. His hips move as he starts stroking himself. The soft friction makes him taut and itchy, like he's about to leap from his own skin and into the video. His tip is already leaking, making each stroke almost seamless.

Rick is dressed differently. He's wearing black square-framed glasses that have a small, almost plexiglass-like square over Rick's right lense. He looks hot with glasses but it's an odd costume choice. The glasses are strange, almost reminiscent to those Google glasses that had been the hype a few years ago. Morty has to squint at his screen to make sure he's seeing it correctly, thanks to the camera distance. From what he can make out, there's a sensor strapped to the glasses, pressing into Rick's temple. It just seems like weirdly advanced technology for the 80's. Morty's hand slows on himself as he's caught up in trying to figure out the logistics of whatever the hell piece of costume that's supposed to be. Or least he tries to but then Rick does a little hip thrust on stage, and Morty's focus narrows in on the guitarist's lower half. And like any red-blooded teenager, he trades common sense for lust.

Usually Rick favors low-slung leather pants that show off his rangy physique and a hint of dark blue pubes. In this video, he's gone for a more conservative pair of fitted jeans, which still hug his legs like a wet dream. Morty can see every dip and curve, especially the impressive semi the guitarist's rocking. There's always been rumors across the fandom that Rick is packing some serious heat. Morty licks his lips. Looks like there's some truth to that. Rick's hair is also different; what's usually an untamed blue mess of spikes, now looks combed and styled. He's more polished than usual. He's still wearing his beloved ripped tank top, though. Rick's got style. He even pulls off a dog collar. It's this black, leather monstrosity strapped around his neck, with an engraved dog tag hanging off it. There's a name etched on it, that's always been partially obscured in almost every Flesh Curtains video. (There had been one memorable video that Morty could've sworn showed his own name on there, but the footage had been strangely absence when he tried to reference it later for his Flesh Curtains fan page.) At certain angles, Morty can see the sharp protrusion of his ribs and a glint of steel speared through brown nipples. Morty's favorite thing about him, though, are the multiple piercings lining the ridges of his ears. It's so punk, and Morty knows he shouldn't cater to trends, but god, they really do it for him. 

Morty tightens his fingers around himself and allows himself one more quick pump, his mouth falling open at the fleeting pleasure. He's already starting to feel on edge and the concert has only just begun. He stops, panting lightly as he watches Rick's hips swivel again as he dances on stage. He imagines himself sinking onto his knees before Rick and offering up his mouth for the guitarist to use any way he sees fit. In that moment, he is Morty's god.

And what a god he is. Rick is a vision of punk-rock and coked-out indifference as he stands at the edge of the stage, showing off a little as he continues his solo. He steps up to the edge and grins down at a few screaming fans who are closest to the stage. He says something to one of them over the vibration of his guitar, and the guy tries to jump on the stage. Rick kicks him back into the crowd, laughing, and the man resurfaces a minute later, fingers raised in the universal symbol of anarchy.

Rick finishes his solo, skirting around grabby hands. He stomps over to a microphone, all long legs and attitude, and yanks it off its stand. The stand rocks violently before falling sideways. He kicks it out of the way, and rakes his hand through his hair, messing up the casually styled strands. He doesn't look like he cares too much as he's leaning in to the audience, bringing the mic to his lips.

“Sup, freaks!” He rasps. “ _Wanna see something nasty?_ ” The audience, collectively, shouts their agreement in the form of screeches, howls, and general fuckery.

And then in a move that Morty couldn't have dreamed about if he tried, Rick runs his tongue up the stalk of the microphone, and flicks it slowly across its mesh. There's a flash of a silver stud and Morty's hands start shaking. Rick drags his tongue ring up and down the grated steel, and moans, long and throaty as his left hand moves down to mess with his skull-shaped belt buckle.

Morty stifles a pathetic whimper, and fucks desperately into his hand, more worked up at this obscene display than he's ever been before. The audience screams and catcalls; Morty's heart pounds. Morty's thumb catches on his wet tip on an upward stroke, and he nearly chokes on his saliva. He rubs over his slit roughly, imagining that it's Rick's tongue licking his cock and swirling it around the head; licking him all over his body; licking into his mouth with the taste of skin and metal…

Rick slowly lowers the microphone from his mouth with a grin, a thin line of drool breaking off from his lower lip. He grin turns more salacious, and he drags his other hand upward away from his belt, taking a little of his shirt with him; revealing the sharp cut of his too-skinny hips and his blue happy trail.

Shameless with lust, Morty brings his hand up to his mouth and eagerly sucks on his index and middle fingers, pretending it's Rick's cock. He can taste the pre-cum on his skin and he sucks harder, trying draw out the flavor. He pants around his fingers and buries them deeper in his mouth, gagging around them as a poor substitute for who he actually wants inside of him. Morty drools as he shoves his tongue into the webbing of his fingers. He removes his fingers and nuzzles his hot cheek restlessly against the cool side of the couch, feverishly wishing for someone he can never have.

“ _Fuck._ Y-you like that?”Rick asks suddenly, his voice husky and dripping sex all across the amphitheater. Morty fumbles the phone, swearing, accidentally exiting out of the video and almost dropping the device on his dick. The ear buds are ripped out of his ears as he gets tangled up in their wires doing a last-minute save. He's embarrassed but he gets himself sorted. He tries to open the video again, with little luck. He jabs at the file helplessly, his fingers clumsy with fading arousal and saliva.

“Ah g-geez…..just….c-come on!” His brain catches up with him and he wipes his fingers on shirt. It opens on his next attempt, still playing from a little after where he left off. He tries to rewind it but the video file is missing both the fast forward and rewind buttons. It's as if it's streaming in real time, which is an impossibility; Morty dismisses the thought. He hastily shoves his ear buds back in and jams the maximize button. It catches Rick mid-sentence.

“-- _about damn time._ _Pay attention, Mor-moron...s.”_ Rick is saying. He looks fucked out, an obvious erection tenting his jeans and what looks like a flush creeping up his neck and into his ashen cheeks. Morty isn't sure what he missed but he's sorely regretting it. Why isn't there a fucking rewind button?

On video, Rick stalks back and forth across the stage, looking keyed up and mussed as hell. The crowd has gone relatively still. The vibe, despite Rick's lewd appearance, grows thick with anticipation. Even Morty notices, struggling to pay attention with everything going on at once. The humiliation had helped quell Morty's arousal a little but it's still there, simmering just below the surface as he watches Rick pace like a malcontent wild animal.

Rick stops abruptly after roughly thirty seconds of painful silence. Morty sighs in relief as Rick finally speaks, his throat gravelly. It goes straight to Morty's cock. “So you shitheads are gonna have to listen to me make a little bitch outta myself.”

At the collectively confused silence, Rick laughs. “I've got this hot piece I'm tryin' t-to get in good with and- Aww fuck it. Why am I explaining it to y-you when I could be SHOWING YOU!” The last part he yells into the microphone, suddenly all hyped up, feeding his manic energy into the crowd.

They go wild, as expected, but Morty's stomach does a disappointed flop. A very familiar territorial haze starts creeping into his thoughts, and he desperately tries to squash it down, frantically recalling his last episode. Like, he knows that _obviously_ this man's probably long-dead from drug overdose or, more optimistically, holed up somewhere with several beautiful ex-wives and a handful of illegitimate kids but Morty can't help the prickle of jealousy that shoots through him at the idea the guitarist has someone he cares about enough to do… whatever it is he's trying to do.

As if in answer, Rick starts fiddling with his guitar, almost self-consciously tuning it with nimble fingers. A strand of his hair falls over his eye and despite himself, Morty wants to tuck it behind the man's ear. He's such a virgin, getting overly possessive of some guitarist from an 80's garage band.

Two girls, apparently incited by the same instinct as Morty, yell, and draw the camera's attention. They whip up their shirts and scream Rick's name, much to Morty's displeasure. His hands shake and his mouth tastes like ash. Rick must notice the camera because, off-screen, he shouts at the camera person to pan the fuck back over to him. The camera person does, although they must have pressed the wrong button because the angle is suddenly at an uncomfortably tight close up of Rick's coolly unimpressed face. The smaller details, like the faint lines around Rick's mouth and his unibrow, are in sharp detail, though; throwing Morty off somewhat. He's never seen the man in such sharp definition. Morty tries to memorize each small detail, hungrily taking in everything from the bags under his brown eyes to the admittedly unappealing pool of booze/drool on his bottom lip. He should be put-off but, if anything, it excites him more.

Rick looks slightly off-screen, probably at the screaming girls as he says,“Y'all are gonna put me in the doghouse. I've gotta be faithful now, _comprende_? I'm a taken man.”

“O-okay, w-w-we get it, Rick. Damn,” Morty mutters, swallowing sheer _murder_. He wants to smash the phone into a thousand pieces or just jerk off to some hetero porn like any normal teenage boy, but he knows he's not going to. Rick may have been a drug addict back in his heyday, maybe still is, but he's Morty's personal brand of heroin. And like a good little addict, Morty settles in for the long haul, sacrificing all of his dignity for a quick hit of sex and rock n' roll.

Or, at least, that is Morty's sentiment before one of them throws their bra at Rick's feet, and he sees red.

“ _SLUT,_ _”_ Morty hisses, irrationally angry at the guitarist. It'd be comical except it's not. Morty's heart just fucking aches. _“_ _I c-_ _c_ _ould treat you right_ _._ _I_ _'_ _d do_ anything _for_ _y-_ _y-y_ _ou!_ _Y-you're MINE, RICK!_ _”_ His voice cracks slightly. He's angry at everything: at this immortalized version of Rick whom he can never touch; at himself for being a crazed fanatic; at groupies of indeterminate genders for getting to touch Rick when it should be him, _dammit_.

It's only then that Morty realizes he has pulled himself up onto his knees, and is seething at a phone screen, bare-assed. Raging jealousy quickly gives way to quiet humiliation and a pounding headache. Another fucking episode. He's exhausted with himself.

Avoiding eye-contact with the screen, he forces himself to remove his headphones and grabs his underwear and jeans. He's so far past the mood to jerk off anymore but he needs to do something to alleviate this possessive black hole. He pulls his underwear and jeans on woodenly and picks up his phone, purposely ignoring Rick moving around on the screen. He obstinately opens up text. His first instinct is to talk to his mom, but what would he even say to her? That he can't handle watching concert recordings without losing his shit? That this isn't the first time he's gotten possessive over some obscure 80's band? That he has episodes where he'd gladly kill someone for even looking at Rick?

He's always been intensely private about this aspect of his life. He's not even sure his mom likes music enough to relate to him. What if she dismisses him? What if she sends him to some sort of asylum? Sure, he deserves to be in one but still. And doesn't she have a relative who used to be a band member? What if she tells them? As much as he loves his mom, she's a bit loose-lipped when she gets to drinking.

Is it even worth talking about?

After some consideration, he shoots a text over to Summer. She had a fling with a drummer once. That hadn't ended well, and she'd blown up his car. She'd be a hypocrite not to understand.

Or she might use this as fuel for humiliation and torture, he belated realizes just as she's responding. But by then, it's too late. Her curiosity is piqued. Once that happens, she's like a hound with a scent; there's not shaking her off until she knows everything. Or at least that's the excuse he gives himself as he shakily spills his heart out to her.

As he waits for her text, curiosity gets the better of him-- or maybe masochism-- and he flips back to the video. Rick looks up then, almost likes he's been waiting for Morty; the camera still zoomed in on his face. It's probably Morty's imagination but Rick's pupils look shot to hell, all blown wide and manic.

“ _Shit, baby,_ ” Rick says. He sounds breathlessly. “You-- you're really making this tough, y'know that? Look, I'm straight-up trippin' balls right now and y-y-you obviously aren't _getting it_. I shoulda figured you for a stubborn, stupid little--”

Morty's heart clenches and he's reaching for the power button when Rick suddenly chokes out a loud,

“MO-- _WAIT!_ ”  
It shocks Morty enough to still his hand, flinching a little at the odd coincidence. He watches Rick pace the stage, the man nearly jumping out of his own skin in obvious frustration. “I had to do a lot of weird shit just to get this to you, so quit being pig-headed and listen. I-I've only got a few minutes.”

Morty stares, dumbfounded; a tiny nagging suspicion starting to itch at him. It creeps into his thoughts as the guitarist glares pointedly at the camera.

“Listen,” Rick pleads. Morty's not even paying attention to the audience at this point; he's too caught up in the barely disguised desperation lacing the guitarist's words. “I--Imma be old as dirt by the time we meet but you better not fool around before I get there, kid.” He shoves a hand through his hair again, his hand trembling slightly. “Don't be an impatient little shit, o-okay? If I have to wait thirty years for y-you and fuck some blonde ali-- _chick_ just to _touch_ you then you aren't allowed to-- to have a goddamn age preference.”

Morty's heart is hammering at this point, his head fuzzy and confused. Rick sounds choked up. The guitarist turns his back to him then, pulling something metallic from his back pocket. He brings it around to his front and tips his head back, chugging the contents of what's now obviously a flask. When he's done, he tosses the flask behind him, into the crowd. A few people wrestle for it before a man emerges victorious, brandishing the flask like a trophy of war.

“Enough of this pussy shit.” Rick growls. “Squanch, hit me with a beat.”

Morty is starting to have a weird inkling of a thought. He doesn't quite understand it but...

The cat chimes in with a slow, moody tempo. Bird-person kicks a stool over to Rick and he hooks it with a scuffed combat boot, turning around and dragging it under him in a well-practiced move. He sits down, legs spread obscenely wide, and positions his guitar on his lap. He strums out a few experimental chords before deciding on a rough, lilting melody. Morty's chest aches. He doesn't know how but he knows this tune. He knows The Flesh Curtains haven't played it before because he's managed to get his hand on every one of their albums. No, this is something deeper; it's like his-- his spirit or something can recognize the notes as Rick strums them on his guitar.

Rick begins to hum, his voice a soothing rasp that Morty wants to envelope himself in. Rick doesn't usually sing, preferring the guitar to anything else; Bird-person is the main vocalist. The few times Morty's heard Rick have been as either part of the chorus or as a rough tenor accompaniment to Bird-person's smoother bass-centric voice. So when he opens his mouth, Morty doesn't know what to expect.

“ _Get the goddamn hint_ ,” Rick sings, his singing voice sex-rough and drawling. Morty's blood is like ice in his veins at this point and he just _knows. He can just feel the realization clicking into place in his chest, and suddenly, he can't fucking breathe. The walls are closing in and he's going to faint and the world won't stop spinning and—god, he can't--_

Rick looks up, brown eyes locked on on the camera. He seems more clear-headed now. His eyes are heavy-lidded and earnest; his face serious. Morty rubs the goosebumps on his arm. Rick licks his lips and Morty touches the screen, running a finger down the screen, captivated. Rick stops playing and mirrors his movement, reaching up to caress the lens over his eye as his gaze locks onto the camera. Morty's breath hitches. He's caught up in the moment, his mouth dry and his heart thundering in his ears as Rick leans in close to the microphone.

“ _You're mine, Morty.”_

The video goes black.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the song, “Come Pick Me Up” by Ryan Adams. That song is pretty much my headcannon for what young Rick’s singing voice sounds like.


End file.
